


Power In Thanks

by Prentice



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Possessive Behavior, vampire!Draco, vampire!Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 03:12:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prentice/pseuds/Prentice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Don’t thank me, Potter. Don’t ever fucking thank me again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Power In Thanks

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this quite a long time ago in answer to a vampire challenge I saw and thought 'vampires! why not!'. It's pretty sparse with language so it might work for you and it might not. Either way, I hope you get something out of it!

“Drink ,” The voice commanded, a hand settling on his hair. Harry hesitated, weak. Confused. Where was he? How had he come here? Who was he with?  
  
“Drink.“   
  
He was hungry, so hungry. He wanted to. Could he--?   
  
Despite himself, he licked his lips, folding his fingers around the hand and forearm to hold it steady. The wrist before him was pale, the blue veins beneath the surface standing out in stark contrast; pulsing with life. He licked his lips again.  
  
“Drink, Potter!”  
  
Harry opened his mouth and…bit.  
  
***  
  
That taste. Bitter, yet sweet. Musky, almost.   
  
 _Salty too, or was that the skin? He couldn’t tell. He didn’t care._  
  
Exploding across his teeth, his tongue, down his throat. He moaned, slanting his lips, sealing them against the pale skin that was so suddenly warm beneath him.   
  
He sucked harder, never registering the sharp inhalation in. The choked sob. The hand that clenched in his hair.   
  
It was fading now. Yes, fading. He fought down a whine. He wanted more, more, more! But it was fading, fast.   
  
“You have to stop now, Potter.” A voice cracked near him, the hand in his hair fiercer. “You have to. You can’t drink any more.”  
  
No! Harry fingers tightened, jaw clenching, biting down more. He could feel the muscle, the tendons surrounding his teeth. A strangled cry.  
  
Harry wrenched himself away, panting. Blood smeared across his lips, his chin, dribbled down the front of his chest. The arm he was holding jerked away. Harry mewled at the lose, bringing his fingers up wildly, wiping at the blood. He licked his fingers frantically, licked them clean.   
  
The taste, it was still there. Still powerful. Still shattering.   
  
“Fucking Potter,” A hoarse voice whispered.  
  
Harry didn’t care.   
  
***  
  
It had been a long time since Harry had thanked someone. Before it hadn’t mattered. Not at all. This time it did. He wanted to get it right.   
  
But, how?  
  
A simple “thank you” didn’t suffice. Not this time, not ever. Not for what the man had done. But…  
  
“I thank you.” Harry didn’t know what else to say.   
  
A panicked, pained expression flittered across the blonde’s face. “Fuck you, Potter. Don’t thank me.” He stood, legs swinging over the bench, fingers clenching at his side. His face was flushed, pale cheeks splotchy-rose. “Don’t ever thank me.”   
  
“I want to.”   
  
Another expression; more pained, more panicked. “Don’t.”  
  
“I thank you.” Harry said, again.   
  
Silver eyes shuttered. “Please don’t, Potter. Not…Don’t.”  
  
“I thank you.”  
  
A sharp throbbing blow to his cheek that made him stagger a step backwards. “Don’t thank me, Potter. Don’t ever fucking thank me again.”  
  
***  
  
“A Wizard’s Debt?” Disbelief. Anger. Disbelief. “ A Wizard’s Debt?!”  
  
“Oh, Harry,” Sorrow. “Don’t you know what that means?“   
  
He nodded. He knew. _I thank you. Don’t ever thank me. I thank you. Don’t ever fucking thank me again._  It echoed in his mind. He knew.   
  
A sigh, a soft touch on his hand. “How could you be so…so…”  
  
“Foolish!” More anger. “Now you owe that…that slimy ferret!”   
  
“Ron, you aren’t helping!”   
  
“He owes  _MALFOY_  a Wizard’s Debt, Hermione!”  
  
“I  _know_ , Ron.”   
  
“Stupid fucking wank--”  
  
“RON!”  
  
More soft touches, a soft voice. “Harry, do you understand what you’ve done? This isn’t just…” She floundered. “He isn’t --” Hesitation. “He isn’t Dumbledore or even Snape.”  
  
“Snape!”  
  
A glare, not directed at him, then more softness.  
  
“Harry, he won’t be honorable with this. He‘ll--”  
  
 _I thank you. Don’t ever thank me. I thank you. Don’t ever fucking thank me again._  
  
Yes, he will.  
  
“--use you.” A soft sigh, tense fingers squeezing his own, gently. Like he would break. “We can’t help you out of this. No one can. It’s too late.”  
  
 _I thank you._  
  
***  
  
“Get the fuck away from me, Potter. I don’t want to see you.”  
  
He didn’t care. He didn’t move.  
  
“I said, get the fuck away!”   
  
No. He wouldn’t leave.   
  
“Do you want me to hit you again? Is that it?”  
  
He wouldn’t leave.  
  
A frustrated, angry sigh. “Fine, get the hell in here. Won‘t have you loitering in front of my fucking home for another three days.”  
  
***  
  
“Why are you doing this to me, scarhead?”  
  
A question, the same question, asked everyday.  
  
Silence.  
  
“Are you ever going to speak again?” Curiosity. “You’ve stopped, you know. Ever since you…Oh.”  
  
 _I thank you._  
  
“You can speak, Potter” A pause. “But not a lot and not to me.”  
  
***  
  
“You’ve moved in with him?!”   
  
Yes. “Yes.”  
  
“For fuck’s sake, Harry!”  
  
“It isn’t that bad.” He shook his head. No, it really wasn’t that bad at all. It was just…quiet.   
  
***  
  
“--don’t see how you stay friends with that lot. The mud blood’s not that bad but that fucking Weasley.” A shake of a blonde head, still damp from the shower. “He’s so fucking volatile. And a bloody wanker to boot. You shouldn’t see him anymore.”  
  
Control, something he knows will be taken back.   
  
“I didn’t mean that. See the Weasel if you want. Just don’t let me find him in our -” Pause. Panic. Emphasis. “- _my_  home again.”   
  
***  
  
A hard hand on his hip, a husky voice in his ear. He was dancing. He didn’t want to be.  
  
“We should do this more often, Harry.” Husky, suggestive.   
  
“Yeah.” No.  
  
“Maybe you could come ‘round to my flat later. Dean will be in town all night.” Smile, all teeth and so Irish. “We could have it to ourselves.”  
  
“Maybe.” No. “More dancing, first.”  
  
Another hand on his hip, drawing him closer. “Oh, yeah, more dancing.”  
  
***

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Finnigan?” Low, dangerous. Exciting.  
  
“What does it look like you bloody ponce?” Sharp, stinging, still Irish. “I’m dancing with--”  
  
“Get your fucking hands off him.” A flash of silver, darkening in anger. “Now.”  
  
Incredulity. “Why?”   
  
“Because I fucking said so you stupid fucking piece of shit.” So much filth. So much truth. “Now get your hands off him!”  
  
Hands drop, not off completely.   
  
“Potter, wait for me outside.” A sharp jerk of blonde towards the exit. “And don’t let anyone else fucking touch you.”  
  
He was moving. It was just his hip. Nowhere else. He doesn’t say, he keeps moving.  
  
“What the hell, Malfoy?” The starting of anger. “Who the hell are you to boss Harry around!”   
  
Low, dangerous. Sexy. “Don’t  _ever_  fucking touch what’s mine again.”  
  
Distant. “Yours?”   
  
He’s weaving through the crowd. So oblivious, these muggles. Just music and dancing for them., not ownership and love.  
  
He waits outside.  
  
***  
  
“--believe you let him fucking touch you!”   
  
He didn’t want him to. It just happened.  
  
“I’m going to fucking kill him, Potter, or anyone else who touches you again. Do you understand?”   
  
He nods. He understands.   
  
“Even if it’s that fucking Weasel. I’ll kill him.”  
  
Threats that he believes. He won’t make a mistake again. He doesn’t want to. He likes this.  
  
Soft hands with hard intent, gripping him.   
  
“I’ll fucking kill them all if they touch you. You’re mine and they’re going to fucking know it.”   
  
***  
  
Soft hands, soft intent. He pulls away from them quickly. He doesn’t like it.   
  
“Harry--?” Confusion. “Harry, are you all right?”  
  
“Just don’t touch me.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Don’t touch me.”  
  
“But--why?” Genuine confusion and…hurt.   
  
“Just don’t touch me, Hermione. I don’t…want you to.”  
  
Pause. Hesitation. Fear. “It’s him, isn’t it? He’s--”  
  
Taking care. Loving. Owning. He loves that. Loves him. It’s not as a surprising revelation as he would have thought.  
  
“No, Hermione, it’s not him. I just don’t want you to touch me anymore.”  
  
“Harry, this isn’t healthy.” Misplaced conviction. “I told you that…that cockroach…wouldn’t be honorable.”  
  
 _I thank you. Don’t ever thank me. I thank you. Don’t ever fucking thank me again._  
  
“He’s being honorable.”  
  
***  
  
“Who touched you?”  
  
Silence.  
  
“Who touched you?”  
  
More silence.  
  
…a sigh.  
  
“You can talk.“ Almost as an afterthought. “But not a lot.”  
  
“Hermione.”  
  
Anger. “Where? Why? Did you let her?”  
  
Pleasure coiled in his stomach. Hot, tight and glowing.  
  
“My shoulder. To get my attention. No.”   
  
Silence. A hand on his shoulder, possessive. “Here?”  
  
A nod. “Yes.”  
  
“What did you tell her?” Hand tightening, fingers rubbing. Trying to rub her away.  
  
No hesitation as he answers. “That I didn’t want her to touch me anymore.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
***  
  
“--been talking. We’ll get you away from Malfoy. We’ll break that Wizard’s Debt.”  
  
No. “No.”   
  
“But--”  
  
“I won’t break it. Not now. Not ever.”  
  
He meant it.

***  
  
“You’re not sleeping in there anymore.”  
  
Pausing, his hand on the doorknob to the room he’s been in since the beginning. “Where am I sleeping?”   
  
An annoyed look. “In my room.” Silver eyes narrowing. “In my bed.”  
  
***  
  
“It’s your birthday tomorrow, isn’t it?”  
  
Stiffening of a pale spin. Surprise. Quiet. “You remembered?”  
  
He smiles against bare skin. “Of course.”   
  
“Oh.”  
  
***  
  
“Do you like your gift?”  
  
Silence.  
  
He smiles, running a hand through pale hair. He knows the answer.  
  
Hoarsely. “Fucking Potter.”  
  
***  
  
“---healthy relationship at all.”  
  
He doesn’t think they’ll ever understand.   
  
“It’s perfectly healthy. It always has been.”  
  
“Harry--” Hands reaching out.  
  
“Don’t touch me.”  
  
***  
  
“You’re a fucking wanker, Potter.”  
  
He looks up. Blonde brows are bunched together, mouth set into a scowl. He doesn‘t say a thing.  
  
“A right fucking bastard.”  
  
Still not saying anything.  
  
“Only Perfect-Fucking-Potter could do this to me.”   
  
Silence. He won’t answer, not yet.  
  
“I love you.”  
  
He smiles. “I know.”   
  
***  
  
“You can’t be serious!”  
  
He was, he really was.  
  
“You can’t marry him! I-- I -- I forbid it!”  
  
He didn’t care.  
  
***  
  
“--feel like a bloody ponce.” Pale hands fluttering up, touching the muggle tee shirt. “This is indecent.”  
  
“I like it.”  
  
A scowl. “You would.”  
  
***  
  
“Who touched you?”  
  
“No one.”  
  
“Who touched you?”  
  
“No one.”  
  
“Who fucking touched you?”  
  
“…you did.”  
  
A nod.   
  
***  
  
“Can we leave now?”  
  
A raised, perfectly sculpted blonde brow. “Nervous, Potter?”  
  
He wasn’t. He just didn’t like it here. “When can we leave?”  
  
“When I say so.”  
  
“I don’t like it here.”  
  
Curiosity. “Why?”  
  
He looked at the jars on the shelves. “It reminds me of…death.”  
  
A pause. Anger. Self-hatred. “We’re leaving.  
  
***  
  
“--Debt isn’t why you’re staying with him.”  
  
He shook his head. No, it wasn’t. It never was.  
  
Weary. Discontent. “You love him?”  
  
Always. “Yes.”  
  
Hesitation. “Is it because he-” Stumbling over the words. “changed you?”  
  
 _Drink, Potter!_  
  
“It never was.”  
  
“But…”  
  
“I was his before he changed me.”  
  
Alarm. Panic. “No!”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
***  
  
“You really feel that way?”  
  
“You were listening?”  
  
No hesitation at all. “Yes.”  
  
“I really feel that way.”  
  
Curiosity. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”  
  
“Why didn’t you ever ask?”  
  
***  
  
“I really do love you, Potter.”  
  
“Call me Harry.”  
  
Silence. Long, drawn out.  
  
“Call me Harry, please.”   
  
Whispered words. “I love you, Harry.”  
  
“I thank you.”  
  
More silence.   
  
 _I thank you. Don’t ever thank me. I thank you. Don’t ever fucking thank me again._  
  
Even more softly.   
  
“And I you.”  
  
***  
  
“You aren’t changing anymore, you know.”  
  
He knew.  
  
“We keep changing and you never do. We’re losing you, Harry.”  
  
No, they weren’t. “You’d never lose me.”  
  
“’Mione’s right. You never do change.”  
  
He never would either. “It’s…you won’t lose me.”  
  
Sad faces, sad eyes. “You’ll lose us…one day.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
***  
  
“Drink, Harry.”  
  
He bit. That taste. Bitter, yet sweet. Musky, almost.  
  
Over his teeth, his tongue. Down his throat. He could feel the muscles and tendons against his teeth.   
  
It wasn’t fading.  
  
“Drink your fill.” A hand curling through his hair, petting him, soothing him.   
  
He kept drinking. No blood on his chest, his chin, his mouth. Time made him better at this. His…bonded…made him better at this.  
  
“Drink.” Murmured words against his forehead, lips brushing his skin. “Be mine, always.”  
  
***  
  
“I love you, Draco.”  
  
Movement. Joy. Shared feelings. Bliss.  
  
“Drink.”  
  
Affection.   
  
“Fucking Potter.”


End file.
